


silk sheets

by plutoandpersephone



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Jaskier's sick of sleeping outside, so he sets about finding him and Geralt somewhere else to sleep for the night. Geralt allows himself to be creative.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 684





	silk sheets

“I won’t stay another night out in the wastes!”

Jaskier lets his pack fall to the ground at his feet. Somewhere in the bundle of straps and leather pouches, his lute clangs - a low, dissonant sound. He finds he doesn’t care that much; he’s tired and he’s cold and his frustration at their situation swells tightly in his throat.

A few metres ahead of him, Geralt stops. He’s leading Roach by a muddied length of rope that is beginning to fray at the edges, although doubtless the steed would follow him without any kind of leash at all. 

“You said that last night,” Geralt comments. He doesn’t turn to face him. Jaskier stares daggers at the back of his perfect head, the colour of lightning.

“Well. Yes, I did.” The words falter at first, before he finds his footing. He’d said it last night, true enough, and thought it the night before that, and dreamt himself in Geralt’s arms on a feather mattress since the first night they’d reunited. “I did say it last night, Geralt, and still we slept out on some godforsaken mountain ridge with the wind battering us until gone sunrise!”

Jaskier takes a step forward, emboldened by his own sudden honesty, full of the determination and bluster that he’s going to give Geralt a piece of his mind. He’s going to tell him exactly what he thinks of campfires and sleeping out where the beasts can smell you.

“You’re not exactly the most pleasant of travel companions, you know that, don’t you?” Jaskier starts, hoping that some personality dissection might be his key to sleeping in an actual bed come the next nightfall. Geralt turns to face him. “It’s not always easy to work around your whims and your wiles and your moods! Not to mention the fact that you always smell that slightest bit like monster entrails and you don’t-”

He’s fully prepared to continue his diatribe, working his words into a thick, poetic lather, dappled with low blows and persuasive pleas, when Geralt stops him. One word, one look, that’s all it takes.

“Fine.”

Jaskier’s certain that he’s misheard. He stops. The wind whistles in the foot of space between their bodies. “What?”

“We will find somewhere to stay tonight,” Geralt clarifies. “There’s a city a few miles from here. If you pick up your feet, we can be there before sundown.” He regards Jaskier with that golden gaze, as sharp and flat and unreadable as the sun on sheet ice.

“Oh.”

It’s embarrassing, really, how often Geralt - a man of fewer words than most - renders Jaskier - a wordsmith, erudite and bright - utterly speechless. 

Apparently Jaskier’s relative silence is all the response Geralt needs. He turns away again, maneuvering nimbly down a rough crag in the uneven path, with Roach following steadily behind.

“Thank you, Geralt!” Jaskier hefts his bags noisily onto his back once more. Geralt doesn’t offer him a reply, but Jaskier feels a relief and undeniable warmth spread like honey through his chest. He half considers swinging his lute over his chest right then and there and composing a new tune - half serenade, half carole, fit for dancing - but fears that such an action might not go down well with the witcher.

The rocky mountainside winds and bucks beneath their feet, wending a slow and unpredictable descent down towards the coastline, and a port city nestled in between the dip of the valley. Geralt leads them an expert route, and Jaskier’s steps seem to be particularly certain today, perhaps spurred on by the promise of ale and a fire set in a grate, rather than one that spits its loose, orange teeth into the night’s sky. 

It is the tenth night that they have been travelling together, and the first when they will encounter any real civilisation besides rough camps like their own, where a tale or a song may be traded for a slab of cooked meat or a few cups of water. Wary eyes, even out in the wilds, watching Geralt, the powerful heft of his shoulders, those fingertips where magic promises like the calm before a storm.

Jaskier had sworn that he would only travel with Geralt for a week, at most, to hear his tales and store up new yarns that he would be able to wind, bright and colourful, over the loom of his musical stave. But a week stretches long when the body beside you is so familiar, when you are so close to utterly mastering the irresistible curve of that mouth. 

Their paths have rolled and bucked over one another for the past decade, and since that first day in Posada, much has changed. Time and time again, the thread of destiny has pulled them tightly together, and each time they part, Jaskier leaves with a fresh slew of adventures charging through his mind, and a throbbing in his chest like he’s been punched in the ribs. Some nights, when he’s alone, or when he’s taken a maiden in some little, wooden-panelled inn room, Jaskier feels the ghost of Geralt’s hand come to rest over his heart. 

He tells himself that they travel together because they enjoy each other’s company - for the most part, at least, Geralt is never particularly vocal in that area - and that someone needs to tell the witcher’s tales, lest they be lost to the mists of time. Mostly that’s the reason. Mostly. Jaskier lets the other reason sink beneath Geralt’s skin with his lips against the scars on his chest.

Never mind that though. They’ll go their separate ways soon enough, because that’s the way it has to be. Destiny’s thread has to snap some time, loosing them from each other’s grasp.

They arrive at their destination just as night is falling, the sun setting on a purplish, wintry horizon. The city is quite the bustling metropolis, the narrow streets far busier and more crowded than they had appeared from the isolated crest of their hillside. Jaskier can see Geralt’s shoulders tense at the sight of all the people toing and froing, their presences sudden and loud after their days in the wilderness. He thinks to put a steadying hand between Geralt’s shoulder blades. A moment passes before he decides against it.

It turns out that all the city’s wild commotion serves as a blessing in disguise; people seem to hardly look twice at the pair of them, throwing them quick directions before going on their way. The roofs of the buildings close almost completely over them, like the branches of trees. 

They eventually find their way to a suitable tavern, set almost on the very edge of the docks, the air thick with the stench of pipe smoke and stagnant water. There's a muddy little yard outside where Geralt ties up Roach, kicking in the dirt alongside a mismatched selection of mules that have likely come from all corners of the continent. 

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks, looking up at the grubby front of the inn. Nice is perhaps not the most suitable choice of words, but Jaskier isn’t one to be discouraged from gilding the lily somewhat.

“There are no rooms in this place, Jaskier,” Geralt says, glancing at the upstairs windows, all of which have been haphazardly boarded over. “And if there were, you would likely be robbed while you slept in them.”

“Come now,” Jaskier tries to look welcoming and positive and like Geralt’s tight-lipped pessimism doesn’t enchant and grate on him in equal measure. “A drink! A meal! I’ll delight these people with a few songs and then we’ll see if we can’t find directions to some cozy little inn.”

He takes a step closer to Geralt, whose hands are still resting flightily on Roach’s tethers. 

“Feather mattresses, perhaps? Warm sheets? A fireplace… Or better yet-” he’s painting a rather marvellous image inside his own head, even if it isn’t working for his companion. “Candlelight? I’m sure they can house at least some of our requirements in a city like this.”

There’s a beat, in which Jaskier watches the witcher’s fingers twitch against the length of rope. And then, with a noncommittal noise from Geralt, they stoop to enter the low doorway of the tavern.

As it turns out, the patrons of this particular establishment are not overly happy to hear Jaskier’s songs, even though many of them are new and as yet unheard by the wider public: just Geralt and Roach on a quiet mountainside. He puts their unwillingness down to the loud carousing that is already going on, not quite the place for him to turn out his new verse about the boundless courage of the White Wolf. 

But there’s plenty of ale and deep bowls of thick, meaty stew, and Geralt even cracks a smile as he watches Jaskier lean over the bar to make conversation with the rather handsome bartend. And as with all good cities, news and gossip travel quickly enough, and before long, Jaskier needs more than one hand to count the number of places in which they have been offered lodgings for the night. In exchange for various quantities of coin, of course.

It’s only by their third tankard of drink that he finally has an offer that is worth setting down in front of Geralt.

“I have found us a place to stay,” Jaskier says, triumphant. While he was busy charming the crowds, Geralt has shaken off the heavy, dark sheath of his armor and is sitting in just his shirtsleeves, his silver medallion hanging between the loose laces at the neck of his tunic. 

Jaskier continues, trying in vain not to let his eyes wander across the rugged expanse of Geralt’s chest. “There is a merchant in town who requires the services of a good bard.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “I assume you found him one.”

It takes a second. Jaskier presses a hand against his chest, scandalised.

“You can be cruel,” he gasps, the crack in his voice more than a little affected. He has learnt to let Geralt’s comments about his ineptitude roll off him like a poor punch sliding off his jawbone. “No. I intend to offer my services.”

“I feared as much.”

“What?” Jaskier is beginning to feel a little put out, wounded at Geralt’s dismissal of a plan that he had thought was very neatly and roundly coming together.

“A witcher, staying beneath the roof of his house?” Geralt takes a swig from his newly filled tankard and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not many men would agree to that.”

“He’s a merchant sailor, Geralt,” Jaskier says, exasperated. “He’s sailed the Great Sea more times than years you’ve been alive-” Geralt’s look is positively scathing, and Jaskier makes a quick about-turn. “Okay, well - perhaps not that many. But I have it on good authority that it’s a fair few.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is - I’m sure he’d be delighted by a man of your…” Jaskier pauses, waving his hand in a loose gesture as he looks for the right words. “Ilk.”

“Hm.”

“Is that a yes?” Jaskier asks.

“It’s a ‘don’t get me murdered in my bed, Jaskier’,” Geralt retorts, his voice hissing around his name in a way that sends an involuntary shiver spark right down the length of Jaskier’s spine.

“I’ll protect you,” Jaskier replies boldly, spurred on by the ale and the prospect of sleeping with foreign silks pressed against his skin. “Never you fear.”

Geralt scoffs, but Jaskier takes his relative silence as permission to offer his services to the merchant and seek them out a luxurious bed for the night. He can feel Geralt watching him like a hawk; that incredible, level gaze finds him an easy target in the crowded room.

Luckily for the pair of them, the merchant doesn’t take much convincing. By the time Jaskier finds his way over to him, his table is already littered with a mess of discarded cups and bowls, and there’s a rag-tag band of patrons seated around him, each one of them shouting merrilly over the others. He’s drinking straight from the carafe, some foul smelling, oily liquor that reminds Jaskier of the solution Geralt uses to clean his swords.

Jaskier’s proposition seems more than agreeable to him, and he broaches the witcher issue before Jaskier has a chance to contemplate a delicate way to slip it into their conversation. 

“I’m a collector, you see?” The merchant slurs, sliding loosely over the table towards Jaskier. Even three tankards of ale down, he feels stone-cold sober in this remarkably lush presence. “Artefacts, stories, people. I would be positively delighted to house you and your… friend for the night, in exchange for stories of some of your adventures.” 

He belches loudly, and then beckons Jaskier closer. Jaskier wonders how rude it would be to pinch his nose closed against the sharp, acrid smell of his breath. “I will offer you the best room in the house if you can tell me something I’ve never heard before.”

A challenge. Well then. Despite what he might argue, Jaskier suspects that Geralt has never shied away from a challenge in his life. The witcher joins them grudgingly at the crowded table.

In the end, it’s the story of the striga that does it. The fabled vukodlak, turned black blood and bones - the striga - turned terrified little girl, cowering in the filth of a forgotten crypt. Jaskier doesn’t even have to weave the tale into a song before the merchant is cackling joyfully, smacking his hand down on the arm of his chair.

“Witcher!” he shouts, “you have given me the greatest gift of all. I have seen much of our world, and to hear of something so strange and new is a treasure. I honour my word. The finest room in the house shall be yours!”

There’s a drunken, cacophonous whooping from the assembled crowd of onlookers.

The house is set in the hills on the outskirts of the city, far back enough from the teeming streets that it almost has a garden at the front, a patch of grass and a few flowerbeds that are wrinkled and browned by the autumn. The mountains rise up proudly behind the building, and the narrow trail that they had been walking only that morning runs like a silver thread across the craggy face.

Jaskier and Geralt are led to a large room at the front of the house by their host himself. If he has servants - which judging by the size and upkeep of the property, he certainly does - they are nowhere to be seen. 

“Thank you for your company this evening,” the merchant says, his voice tired and his eyes grown unfocused around the edges. “Perhaps you will stay and regale me with some more tales in the morning.”

Jaskier smiles sweetly and Geralt bows his head slightly, both gestures empty enough to mean ‘we shall see about that’. The door clicks shut behind them. The house is very quiet, the hubbub of the city no more than a pale, insignificant stream babbling in the background.

“It’s not like you to be quite so candid with your tales,” Jaskier comments, watching Geralt’s back as he removes the rest of his armor and lays it over the back of one of the chairs. The leather shines dully in the low light from the fireplace, flickering off each metal setting like a muted star. 

“I doubt he will remember many of the details in the morning,” Geralt says, placing his swords on top of a low, blackwood table. Polite practice might have been to leave his weapons at the doorway of their guest’s house, but most convention seems to have disappeared this evening. 

He looks at Jaskier, and Jaskier’s heart finds its way into his mouth. “Besides. Finest room in the place.”

He grins. 

The room itself is a marvel to behold. The stories of travels across the Great Sea were clearly not fabrications, the walls are hung with rich tapestries detailing all manner of bizarre creatures and strange, unfamiliar scenes. Jaskier examines the cabinet in the corner: silver plates engraved with the crests of far flung kingdoms; a selection of glassware spun finer than a fingernail, dyed the colour of seafoam. 

He doesn’t really care about the contents of the cabinet. He knows that Geralt is watching him.

Something burns like embers between them, low and golden, an unspoken promise. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze roaming over his shoulders, his back, the narrow twist of his wrist as lifts his hand to trace a shape against the glass front of the cabinet. 

“Perhaps he expected me to sleep on the floor like a dog,” Geralt comments, a rare push to break the silence. When Jaskier turns, he can see that Geralt has removed the rest of his armor, the heavy plates that support his waist, the bindings around his hands. He looks no less powerful like this. On the contrary, there’s a raw, unbridled power in the sight of his naked forearms that makes Jaskier’s mouth run suddenly very dry. 

“The bed is big enough for two, Geralt,” Jaskier takes a step closer to him. It is rare for there to be so much space in one of their bedchambers. “Gods, it’s big enough for three. Or six.”

He’s not wrong - the bed in the centre of the room is a broad, flat landscape, a country all of its own, red silks like a mountain range soaked by the sunset.

“Do you have guests arriving?” Geralt asks, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t move. He lets Jaskier close the gap between them, reaching to toy with the loose cotton of his shirt, hanging untucked from his waistband.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Good.”

Geralt kisses him, finally. Jaskier realises - like waking up after the first snowfall of the winter - that this is what he’s been thinking about all day. Since the moment he first opened his eyes and found Geralt’s arm slung over his waist, the sharp smell of mountain sage in his nostrils, it has pressed tight like a pearl, a diamond, at the back of his mind. How strange things are.

They kiss, unhurried, Geralt’s hands pushing off Jaskier’s emerald doublet and letting it fall to the floor beneath them. Already - as if in anticipation of what is to come, because he’s felt it time and time again and he knows it so very well - Jaskier can feel himself already half hard, growing uncomfortable even in his loose-fronted trousers.

Geralt must feel it too, because he pulls away, surveying him. A narrow stare, the kind that makes Jaskier feel like he’s about to be devoured. 

“On the bed.” Geralt bites down on the words, hard and commanding.

It’s normal for Geralt to take the lead in situations like this, a man of action and intent - he knows what he wants and how he’s going to get it. And right now? He wants Jaskier. The thought is no less intoxicating than the first time they were together. All that energy and intensity focused on making Jaskier coming apart beneath his hands, leaking onto those terribly luxurious bedclothes, biting down on the soft part of his own palm. 

Jaskier slips off his shoes, unbuttons his trousers and steps out of them. And then, in only his underclothes - fine, gauzy cotton against his skin - he takes to the bed. 

The scarlet sheets are as fluid and smooth as water, and Jaskier has to do his very best not to slip against the silken threads. He manages it. Just. 

“Well - aren’t you going to join me?” he asks, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand. Geralt hasn’t moved from his position by the door; he has merely turned to watch Jaskier’s rather indelicate prostration across the mattress. 

“Not yet.”

Jaskier feels very exposed like this, strung out and vulnerable beneath Geralt’s gaze. He had rather hoped that he might get his legs spread rather soon, thick fingers pressing against those places where he’s easily oversensitive, preparing him for a quick, hot fuck in the finest bedroom Jaskier’s frequented in a long time.

Interestingly, it seems like Geralt has other ideas. The knowledge makes a sweet, urgent heat curl in his stomach. 

“Oh.” Jaskier shifts, palming himself through the thin material of his undergarment. “You mean you’re just going to stay there and look at me?”

“Yes,” Geralt replies. He pulls one of the chairs from around the low table, placing it a foot or so from the side of the bed. So used to cramped chambers and being curled skin to skin in front of the heat of a campfire, the distance seems absolutely impassable. 

Jaskier’s brow furrows, confused for a long, awkward moment. Geralt tilts his head to one side.

“I want to watch you touch yourself, Jaskier.”

Oh. _Oh._ So that’s it. The words hit like heavy, warm raindrops, spreading quickly across his skin, flooding through the narrow, thrumming passageways of his veins.

“Ah. Okay.” Jaskier bites his lip. His hands trace down to his thighs. The idea of putting on some kind of show, to unravel himself with no more input from Geralt than that sharp and incredible gaze makes his skin feel very hot. His thoughts depart his mind and leave nothing in their stead but a high, fine buzzing. He swallows.

Geralt gives him that look again, curious and hawkish. In the firelight, his handsome features have been thrown into a high, monstrous relief, like some cruel god sent to earth for the sole purpose of tormenting Jaskier. He clicks his tongue. “Lost for words?” 

“No,” Jaskier lies, frowning. “I- Fuck.”

“I thought so. We can do something else if you-”

“No.” He interrupts around a shaking breath. “I want to. It’s just - it’s new.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, simply settles himself further back in the chair and lets his legs fall open. Those thick thighs. The outline of his cock pressing against the leather. Jaskier guides his own hands - nimble, lithe fingers, nothing like Geralt’s, battle worn - and slides off his underclothes.

Jaskier’s used to performance. He’s made his living on it, mostly, bearing his soul in song and verse. But this is very different. He has a captive audience of just one, the most important person in his life, no matter what he tells himself during their long periods of separation. Geralt’s here, watching, and he doesn’t want to see a polished performance. He wants to see Jaskier fall to pieces.

He starts slow, stroking himself from base to tip in tentative, aching movements that make his breath begin to come shallow and fast. He’s already leaking, embarrassingly quick and eager to come apart - always, when Geralt is involved. At first Jaskier doesn’t look towards him - he stares upwards instead, towards the canopy of the bed - but once he catches those eyes, focused on him like the sharpest side of a blade, he has trouble looking anywhere else. It presses into his skin, and he shivers.

The white wolf regards his prey. 

He starts to move his fist a little quicker, hips bucking and twisting into the tight curl of his fingers. A moan rolls in the back of his throat and the sound makes Geralt shift where he’s sitting, touching himself over the thick fabric of his trousers. If Jaskier keeps this up, soon he’s going to spill over his own hand, quick and half-satisfying, clenching emptily around nothing. The thought is unconscionable. 

“Are you going to touch me?” Jaskier asks desperately, shocked to hear the rasp that rattles through his own words. He twists his head back against the sheets, the silk on his skin an almost unbearable softness now - his own hands are not enough to sate his desire for touch.

“Patience.” Geralt says, and the sound Jaskier makes is little more than a whine. There’s a familiar tightening heat in the base of his gut, and it would be easy to end this right here, petulant and abrupt in the face of Geralt’s inhuman control. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrays him, a clench beneath his ears like he’s trying to bite down on his own desire, to keep the blaze of the fire in check. At the sight, Jaskier can’t help but feel something like pride, whisked in with his crackling frustration. 

“Touch me. Please,” He repeats, impatient, humiliating. He doesn’t care one bit. 

Geralt just grins - ruthless - and Jaskier huffs, a sharp exhale through his nostrils. The back of his calves slide messily against the silken sheets. 

“A little longer,” Geralt says, his words quiet and his gaze so intense that it makes Jaskier feel like every one of his nerves is being set alight beneath it. His heartbeat thunders below his skin, yearning for something more than the paltry clench of his own fist. 

Transfixed, he watches as Geralt continues to touch himself over his trousers - gentle strokes turned hard, turned to rough squeezes with his whole hand, like his thread of control has been worn down to just a single, shivering strand. Jaskier knows those palms, those thick fingers, knows how he easily would stretch and burn to accommodate Geralt’s thick, heavy cock.

The memory is too much to bear.

“Gods, Geralt, just fucking touch me,” Jaskier moans, drawing his hands sharply away from himself and balling them into the sheets at his sides, surely hard enough to tear those cursed foreign silks. His dick bobs against his stomach, desperate, unsatisfied. 

Geralt laughs - fucking laughs, deep in the back of his throat - and Jaskier very seriously contemplates crossing the gap forced between them and climbing into his witcher’s lap. 

“I’m not a savage, bard,” Geralt says, and there’s some darkness to his voice that Jaskier has never heard before. Like brushed silver, like steel. “You can address me more politely than that.”

“Geralt-” as if Jaskier’s a dying man, as if he’s pleading for something more than the rough edge of a hand, a flat palm at the small of his back, five fingers in a fiery star. “Please.”

And then, in what is surely going to be the final blow that will murder Jaskier where he lies, Geralt gets to his feet and heads towards the door. It takes only a moment - granted, it’s the longest moment of Jaskier’s life - for him to realise that Geralt is looking in their bags, pulling out the small bottle of almond oil that Jaskier keeps for such situations, hidden innocently amongst the vials of lavender and cedar wood that he picks up on his travels.

Crossing the room once more, Geralt places the little bottle into Jaskier’s hand. The brief brush of his fingertips burns right to his very core.

“Get yourself ready for me,” Geralt says, and there’s a gentleness behind the command that makes Jaskier’s chest ache. And he does as he’s told - of course, because wouldn’t he do anything for Geralt - slicking up his fingers and sliding them between his legs. A little of the oil drips off his fingers and spreads on the fine silk.

Jaskier tries not to watch Geralt, focusing instead on working himself open - one finger easy, two fingers scissoring and stretching, three making his breath catch in his throat. He avoids that tight coil of nerves inside himself, that sweet spot that he knows will make him see stars. Geralt is undressing somewhere outside of Jaskier’s field of vision, unlacing his boots, his trousers, sliding off his dark underclothes.

At long last, his shadow crosses Jaskier like a thundercloud over a white hill. He swallows, his head turned away, gaze still diverted, as if he’s scared to look. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt says his name softly once, and then again, before Jaskier turns to look at him. He’s astounding in his beauty. Jaskier could write a thousand epic poems, sing a thousand songs about this moment, about how his yellow eyes glow a deep amber in the firelight, about that single strand of white hair that has fallen from behind his ear. All the beautiful words stick in his throat.

“I’m worried about these silks, Geralt,” Jaskier blurts, his voice high, careful not to let his slick fingers touch down the bedspread. “With the oil, and uh- everything else, we’re going to ruin them.”

He’s babbling. Geralt silences him with a hand at his jaw.

“Jaskier. Hush.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, the force of it shaking through his chest.

In one swift movement, Geralt reaches around and lifts Jaskier’s hips up - only one hand and that terrible, incredible strength - and pushes the sheets away from beneath the pair of them. The silks tumble and shine over one another, sliding to the edge of the wide bed. Beneath the scarlet fabrics, the sheets are white cotton, simpler and rougher than the liquid silks. Even if he might be reluctant to admit it, this is more what Jaskier has become used to. 

“Better?” Geralt asks, as innocuously as if he’s just adjusted a painting to sit straight on a wall.

Jaskier nods, his breath fast. The memory of Geralt’s hand against his back is as hot as a firebrand. “Yes. Yes, that’s better.”

“Good.”

And at long last, like time itself has been pulled and stretched out of shape, Geralt touches him. Those calloused fingertips find the softness at the back of Jaskier’s thighs, the thin skin across the tough outline of his ribs, places where he’s so sensitive that it makes him want to twist away from the sensation. But he doesn’t. He lets Geralt take care of him, lets him smooth out the tension and that has wound itself tightly into his shoulders, until Jaskier is pliant and soft beneath his hands.

They don’t need to talk, not really. It’s strange for Jaskier, who has always found it easy to speak his emotions, to articulate the depths and intricacies of his desires. Geralt talks with his actions, calm and quiet, and over time, Jaskier has learnt to follow his lead. 

Big hands guide Jaskier onto his back, a pillow pushed under his hips to angle them upwards. The air is very cool against his skin.

“Look at you,” Geralt mutters, his hand spread wide on Jaskier’s chest. It’s an aside, a secret fallen from loosed lips, words that Jaskier suspects he was not meant to hear. He tucks them away for safe keeping, for a windy, lonely night.

Looking between the bough of his own legs, Jaskier can see that Geralt has taken himself in hand, stroking in long, slow movements that make his nostrils flare, his jaw grow tight. Jaskier would like to touch, but he knows - wordless - that that is not allowed. They’re both skirting around each other, as if they’re worried that movement might break the spell cast over them, golden in the firelight.

In the end, it has to be Jaskier’s words that spur Geralt to action. 

“Please, Geralt.” His hand grasps at Geralt's forearm. “Please.” 

The press of Geralt’s cock against him - finally, all the gods be damned - is enough to force the air out of Jaskier’s lungs in one shuddering gasp. No matter how many times he takes him, no matter how often he has been on his back beneath Geralt’s mercies, or on his hands and knees, it still takes a while to get used to that heady, delicious burn. The slow push inside him - inch by maddening inch. 

He’s buried to the hilt before Jaskier realises it, strong stomach pressed against the back of his thighs. Jaskier’s fingers grip hard enough to leave marks. Marks that will disappear long before he has a second chance to admire them. Given the opportunity to ponder on it any longer, that idea might serve to upset him - but then Geralt moves his hips, and all sensible thought is pushed from his mind.

He sets a steady pace, each thrust so deep and exact that Jaskier’s vision threatens to darken around the edges, tunnelled in, unaware of anything but that wolfish glare. Geralt lowers himself down towards Jaskier and takes his mouth in a kiss, slow and warm and messy. Chest to chest, heartbeat meeting heartbeat. Jaskier moans against Geralt’s lips, each press of his cock finding that point of pleasure and making galaxies burst before his eyes, winding that white-hot coil inside him tighter and tighter. Geralt is no wordsmith, but the noises he makes against the skin of Jaskier’s neck are poems all by themselves.

The friction on his dick, trapped between the heat of their bodies, is enough to send Jaskier crashing towards the edge, that searing precipice, and before he knows it he’s close, teetering before the plunge - 

“Geralt,” he gasps, “I’m-”

Geralt’s eyes go wide, astounded, pulling back so that he can watch. When Jaskier comes with a shout - the sound bitten off around his own fingers, vision white - he’s barely been touched. Never one for forcing praise and sweet words, Geralt shows his gratitude, his amazement, with kisses along the length of his neck, across his chest, taking each of his nipples between his teeth. Jaskier keens in the back of his throat. 

Spent, he’s so sensitive that the drag of the witcher’s thick cock is almost too much to bear. Geralt must be able to sense this because he gets to his knees, letting himself slide out of Jaskier’s slick hole with a filthy, wet sound. 

“Stay there,” Geralt commands, and Jaskier nods - as if there’s anywhere else in the whole, sorry world that he would rather be right now. 

Geralt takes himself in hand, mouth slack, his breath catching on every trembling exhale. Jaskier can imagine how good the tight grip of his own fist must feel, the roughness of his skin, his thumb pressed to that thick vein where Jaskier has run his tongue countless times. His dick twitches in interest, half thinking about getting hard again, and he bites down on his lip.

Geralt rises above him like a statue of a legendary king, carved from granite, worn imperfect and beautiful by the passage of time. It doesn’t take him long, his head thrown back to the heavens, his yellow eyes fluttering closed. He comes across Jaskier’s chest with barely a sound, just a low, choked growl that sounds deep in his chest, rumbling and dark, the most wonderful sound that Jaskier has ever heard.

Jaskier’s torso is painted with a mix of both of them - pearlescent and glistening. Geralt regards him like he’s a work of art, perhaps, or a beast after the kill, and then passes his finger through the mess on Jaskier’s chest, right down to his navel. 

Slowly, he puts his fingers to his lips and sucks them in. What must it taste like, that heady mixture of both of them, amplified so intensely by his powerful witcher senses? Jaskier’s jealous that he’ll never know.

“You’re disgusting,” Jaskier murmurs, and the tone of his voice betrays his dishonesty. He doesn’t think it’s disgusting at all.

Geralt regards him, his gaze soft, head inclined slightly to one side. His lips glisten. “You should expect nothing less.”

There’s a small antechamber off to the side of the room and Geralt goes to find them a cloth and a bowl of water so that they can wipe down. Jaskier’s tired, suddenly, an aching right down to his bones. He can feel his eyes beginning to droop even as Geralt sponges at his chest, even though the water is cold and the sensation makes him hiss from between his teeth. 

They have no bedclothes as such, but Geralt finds Jaskier one of his own undershirts and tosses it to him. It smells familiar, chamomile and lavender, iron and smoke. He puts it on, sliding the silken sheets back over them. 

Geralt doesn’t wear anything to bed, not when they have a room to stay in, and Jaskier runs his fingers absently over the landscape of his bare chest. He’s asked more than once what might happen if an attacker were to invade their rooms in the dead of night, and Geralt had to defend their honour in a brave but utterly naked fight - and each time he was rewarded with a withering look and the instruction to go back to sleep. 

Tonight, Jaskier is particularly glad of Geralt’s nakedness. He looks good in the silk, like he belongs, like his white hair should be woven with a golden crown, a diadem framing his kingly features.

“We should stay in fine rooms like this more often, Geralt,” he mutters, resting his head on Geralt’s chest. 

“Perhaps,” Geralt responds, his fingers woven loosely in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier knows that this kind of luxury makes him feel uncomfortable, out of place, born of hard work and tribulation - but perhaps they could find a way to enjoy it more together. 

Their sleep is deep, and on Jaskier’s part, dreamless. He can’t speak for Geralt. They wake to thin, pale sunlight coming through the curtains, the sound of birdsong through bright, imported glass.

They decline the merchant’s bleary-eyed offers of breakfast, thanking him instead for his hospitality and choosing to make their own way. Geralt has a good nose for the bakeries that sell the kind of sweet pastries Jaskier likes. 

They are out in those damned wastes again for the next few nights - until news of a monster filters through from the North and Geralt is forced to depart. Jaskier misses him. He misses him and he wonders if, when they meet again, it will be between silk sheets or on the rough hewn ground. He doesn’t think that he would mind either way.

**Author's Note:**

> whoops!  
> come and find me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/andpersephone)


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